


Risqué Communiqué

by smokeopossum



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cis Female Character, F/F, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Trans Female Character, these hands are only capable of creating filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeopossum/pseuds/smokeopossum
Summary: “Hang on. Are you... touching yourself?” Tracer sounded surprised, awed.“Don't be stupid,” Widowmaker breathlessly replied as she rubbed herself through her suit.





	Risqué Communiqué

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i meant to post this last night but i completely crashed in a food coma instead. anyway happy holidays

Another day, another waste of her talents on something as trivial as package security. Widowmaker scoffed to herself at the thought and adjusted her rifle on the windowsill, twelve stories up at the edge of the business district. She glared through her scope at the nondescript warehouse, no movement on the street but for a stray cat searching out its next meal.

Had Talon run out of enemies? Was there no one in the world left for her to kill? The higher ups had assured her the package was important, that she was free to shoot any non-Talon operatives going near the building on sight, but Widowmaker still found herself feeling discontent. 

That was another thing - the discontent, the boredom, the occasional bout of irritation or, God forbid, ennui - she was allegedly made not to feel any of those things. And yet, here she sat, scowling down her sight at the barren streets below her, itching for a reason to put her skills into action.

She wanted the exhilaration of a fight, of a struggle, of a _challenge_ to something aside from her patience. The night of the Mondatta assassination came to mind and her scowl deepened.

No. Not like that. Nothing like that.

Her mind instead leapt to the day of the botched Doomfist retrieval, of the thrill of the chase and how she had savored the rush even through the sting of failure.

Widowmaker clenched her jaw and shifted her attention to the opposite street, finding it just as deserted.

She knew what she _really_ wanted. An image came to her mind unbidden, of freckles and blue glow and wind tousled hair, and she let out a sigh through her nose, wishing someone, _anyone,_ would come to distract her from her own thoughts. 

The communicator in her ear crackled and popped oddly, as if responding to her plea. She lifted her free hand up to confirm it was positioned correctly, briefly puzzled by the interruption until a faint click signaled there was someone on the other end.

“What is it _now,_ Sombra?” she sighed, eyes scanning the area below her in a practiced sweep. 

“‘Fraid you've got the wrong girl, actually,” came the response, the voice so unexpected that Widowmaker snapped her head to the side as if to catch its owner in the room with her instead.

_“Tracer._ How did you get this frequency?” she hissed, eyes darting around the room regardless. A familiar giggle traveled through the communicator and her grip on her rifle tightened. 

“You're not the only ones with a bit of technological trickery up their sleeves,” came the teasing reply. The smugness of it brought back her scowl.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her attention quickly returned to the warehouse, as still and silent as when she had last looked at it.

“Was mostly just testing to see if I could, but if it's distracting you from something important, that'd be lovely.” The sound of fabric shifting filtered through before the nuisance continued. “Am I?” 

Widowmaker scoffed, glaring down at the empty streets. Even the cat was gone now. “I don't get distracted, and certainly not by someone like _you.”_

“Mm, not how I remember it.” There was something in the tone of her voice that made Widowmaker seethe. She wouldn't give in to the feeling, though - she knew that's what the irritating girl wanted, and if this was truly meant to distract her, perhaps while Tracer or her comrades attempted to steal what she was guarding, then it was of utmost importance for her to remain focused.

She made up her mind: she was going to stay silent and not respond to any further attempts at conversion. With any luck, Tracer would quickly grow bored and leave her alone.

“So what're you wearing?” Tracer asked, voice a low purr with just a hint of a laugh.

_“Imbecile,”_ Widowmaker immediately hissed in response. It was met with another infuriating giggle before Tracer continued on regardless. 

“Bet it's that same tight purple number they like to put you in. I assume you have to get into it, anyway - or do they just spray it on before they ship you out?” A thoughtful hum comes through the communicator. “Maybe it's more of a dipping process. Either way, really.”

A Talon patrol unit turned the corner and began making its way through the shadows near the warehouse. Widowmaker fought the urge to sink a bullet or two into the squad. 

“You do look good in it, though,” Tracer continued, voice returning to its teasing lower register. “Just the right amount of revealing while still leaving a bit to the imagination. Slick and smooth all over... bet it's soft to the touch. Shame I've always got my gloves on at work, then, yeah?”

An unfamiliar warmth washed over her at the implication. She _was_ wearing her suit, actually, and despite herself, she began to wonder how it would feel to have warm, bare hands running over it. 

Tracer was getting into her head. This needed to stop.

“If this is your attempt at flirting, chérie, it's a shameful display.”

“Was just thinking out loud,” she responded, seemingly unfazed. “But if it's flirting you wanted, reckon I could give it a shot. Thing is, you're probably no stranger to all sorts of lines, as gorgeous as you are, so coming across sincere is pretty tricky, innit?”

Widowmaker pursed her lips and brought her focus back to the patrol unit. They were nearly done with their sweep of the block, soon to leave her staring at nothing once more.

“You are a pretty one, though. Took my breath away first time I saw you, and not just because of that knee to the gut you gave me.” Tracer chuckled at her own joke. “Could go on about all the things that make you attractive, if you like, even though you’ve likely heard it all before. Should I start at the top and work my way down, or maybe at the bottom and go up from there?”

“Why not start with your favorite part of me,” Widowmaker replied as she wiped a speck of dust from her scope. Why was she even entertaining this conversation? As the last member of the patrol turned onto the next street and out of her sight, she supposed she could always tune out Tracer's chatter if need be, but with nothing else to capture her attention there didn't seem to be a reason to. 

Tracer was wrong, anyhow. It had been a while since she had been truly charmed - most were content to simply drool over her before propositioning her, and considering how often those were _targets,_ they never lived long enough to fulfill their promises. 

“Favorite? Normally I'd say that's tough, but I'm in a _mood_ tonight, so I'd have to say your eyes.” Widowmaker scoffed and rolled said eyes, while Tracer was quick to continue. 

“Okay, but hear me out! There's a lot to like about them. The color, for starters - gorgeous shade of gold, like looking at the sun through a drip of honey. Practically glow the same, too. And they're awful expressive - calculating and bright and focused when we go at it, smug when you think you've got me dead to rights. Love when I knock you off balance and they get real wide, like you're thinking ‘how'd that little wanker do that!’ when I blink away.”

Tracer giggled to herself as Widowmaker chewed over her words. They were... surprisingly poetic. Perhaps Tracer was more perceptive than she had thought.

There was a pause before Tracer continued. “... Might be a bit big-headed, but it feels like they light up when they see me. Even if it's just because you're trying to kill me, it's nice to think you're at least excited about it.”

“Hm.” It was strange to think someone like Tracer had given something as simple as her eyes much thought.

“Suppose the brows are part of that expressiveness, of course, all sharp and perfect and regal. D’you maintain them yourself?”

“Yes,” she responded without thinking. She and Sombra had weekly Girl's Nights where they drank wine and took care of things like that while catching up on telenovelas, occasionally joined by Gabriel, but she caught herself before she relayed any of that to _Tracer_ of all people. If the girl noticed the odd pause, she thankfully chose not to press.

“Oh, I'm a bit jealous of that. Tried to do it myself when I was thirteen and ended up looking absolutely mad for a month. Glad my eyebrow grew back more or less the same, is all I'll say. So I'm more than happy to pay a professional to take care of it these days.”

The image of a Tracer with a single surprised eyebrow came to mind and almost made her laugh. She pressed her lips together and allowed herself a secret smile instead.

“Are you not on the clock, chérie? You're doing a poor job of distraction, if you are.”

“Maybe, maybe not. What I get up to is my business, so don't you worry about that. Now let me get back to telling you how gorgeous you are.”

At that, Widowmaker let a snort escape. “Very well, continue.” 

_“Thank_ you. Anyway, where was I? Right, right, right, face. Your nose is absolutely bloody adorable if I'm being honest, which I am. Upturned little button of a thing, all dainty and proper. And those cheekbones of yours... if you want to talk about regal, those make you look like a proper _queen,_ like you hopped out of a renaissance painting or something, honestly.”

The strange warmth from earlier washed over her again, this time with an odd tightness in her chest, and she furrowed her brows. She wasn't actually responding physically to this, was she? She's supposed to be above that.

“And then of course there's your mouth... Look, I'll be honest, I've got a bit of an oral fixation, so, not to be dramatic or anything, but your mouth _ruins_ me. Ugh. Terrible, terrible, terribly good.”

Widowmaker licked her lips, curiosity taking hold of her. “Oh? And what is it about my mouth that ‘ruins’ you, mm?”

A groan from the other end made her smirk.

“If you really want this chat to go down that path, I won't say no.”

“And what path would that be?” she teased back. Somehow, she was starting to have fun. 

“The randy working-ourselves-up path. _I'm_ fine with it, but aren't _you_ on Talon’s dime right now?”

“I have nothing better to do,” she replied, peering down her sights at the literal cobwebs covering the doors and windows of the warehouse. “And how bold of you to assume you would have that effect on me.”

“Don't I, though?” came the slightly smug response. “The way you look at me sometimes, like you're half a second from pinning me to the ground and snogging me senseless, says I've pushed a button or two of yours before.”

The wild impulse _had_ struck her before, perhaps more than once, but she had always shoved it aside almost immediately. There was no way Tracer had caught that. She was bluffing, obviously. She had to be.

“Sounds to me as though you're projecting,” Widowmaker countered. A snorting laugh came through the line, as though Tracer had been caught off guard.

“Mm, well, you might not be entirely wrong on that one. If you're not objecting to the direction this is gonna head, though...” 

“I'm not.”

Widowmaker heard the sound of fabric shifting once more before Tracer continued, her voice low but clear. 

“Your mouth is just... _mm._ Pouty, full lips that look softer than I could imagine, glossy from whatever product you've got on - I've wondered if you'd leave traces of it if you put your mouth on me. Ugh, and that awful, evil smirk of yours gets me so bloody _hot_ sometimes.” 

Tracer gave a soft sigh while Widowmaker's thoughts raced. She wondered if her lipstick _would_ leave marks or not, and was surprised to find how badly she wanted the answer to be yes. The idea of marking Tracer, claiming her _visibly,_ and knowing she would _want it_ caused heat to spread through her, tingling out to her fingertips.

“What else do you think about my mouth?” she found herself asking, her own voice dropping to match Tracer's. A faint noise that might have been a whimper filtered through. Her ears strained to catch any other sounds as the warmth inside of her began pooling between her legs.

“Think about it on me everywhere,” Tracer continued, slightly breathy. “Lips, and chin, and cheeks, and right against my ears... Shit, just gave myself chills with that.”

“Mmm. Your ears are sensitive, then?”

The idea of mouthing and nibbling at Tracer's ears while the younger girl let out more of those quiet noises beneath her tugged just below her navel, hot and encouraging. 

“Yeah,” Tracer breathed back. “Neck, too. And nevermind if you started heading lower. I'd _lose_ it. Feeling is one thing, but watching you do it, too? With those pretty eyes of yours looking up at me, and a naughty smirk? If you _really_ wanted to end me, that's how you'd do it.”

As she spoke, Widowmaker imagined the scene: nibbling at her ear and working her way down her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Heading lower still, with wide chocolate eyes tracking her descent, until her lips met the waistband of Tracer's tights.

“And just how low do you imagine my mouth going, chérie?” she thickly murmured. A quiet, sharp intake of breath was her reward.

“... Low enough to close around my bits,” Tracer finally admitted.

Her brows slowly raised as her lips curled into a pleased smirk. “Oh? Who knew you were such a deviant,” Widowmaker breathed, a spark of hunger flaring to life as she stared down at the motionless warehouse. Warmth squirmed in her stomach at the whimper that came across the comms. 

“Guess I am, when it comes to you. You've never thought about it?”

Widowmaker remained silent, lips pursing. If she didn't respond, she didn't have to admit she had.

She could practically hear Tracer's smirk when she resumed talking.

“Never thought about finally pinning me down and taking the next step? Us pressed together, panting from the effort, and you notice I'm a bit more panicked and squirmy than I usually am... and then you feel me getting stiff against your thigh.”  

Widowmaker swallowed thickly. She could imagine it. She _has_ imagined it. 

“What would you do, love? You've got me winded and randy underneath you, helpless.”

Fuck it. No one was going near the warehouse. She could take a break.

“Touch,” she growled out, voice low and raspy with want. Another whimper floated over the connection and brought with it a stab of arousal.

“Touch how?”

Her mouth seemed to move on its own as she stared off at the dark, empty streets. “I would hold you down with one hand, pinning your wrists above your head, and play between your thighs with the other. I want you _hard_ for me, chérie.”

“Fuck,” Tracer whispered. “I'm so hard for you, love. You've got me straining at my tights.”

“I pull them down. Slowly. Down to your knees. Do you have anything beneath them?”

“No,” comes the quiet response.

“Slut. Were you hoping for this?”

A shuddering exhale. “Always am.”

Widowmaker huffed a laugh. “I run a finger over you, from base to tip. So stiff and _eager,_ chérie. Is the thought of my mouth really so exciting?” 

Tracer's breathing stuttered at that, a broken moan escaping. “It is, it really is,” she murmured. The curious sound of fabric shifting returned. Widowmaker had an idea of what, exactly, it was, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to catch her out.

“... What are you doing?”

_“Shit,”_ Tracer whispered to herself. “I didn't think you could hear th--”

“Tell me what you're doing,” Widowmaker said, more firmly. Her grip on her gun tightened as Tracer let out a whimper.

“I've been rubbing myself through my knickers, for a while. Finally pulled them down to my knees and... started teasing a finger up and down my knob.”

A pleased hum rumbled from her chest at the thought. If she closed her eyes, she could see it happening - Tracer sprawled on her back with a hand between her legs, acting out their little scene while she breathed soft noises into her ear.

“Spread for me while I touch you,” she ordered. Satisfaction rolled down her spine as she heard Tracer shift with a sigh.

“Got me spread nice an’ wide, love. You still teasing me with a finger?”

“Circles over your tip only. I want to look at you. I want to see how exposed you’ll get for me.”

Tracer let out a high moan. “Fuck, I'm so _wet,”_ she whispered. “I'm dripping all over myself. All over your finger.”

“Then I stop touching you. And I make you lick my finger clean.” Widowmaker set her rifle aside before she fired it into the wall. Her hands were itching with the need to do _something._ “How do you taste?”

There was a brief moment of silence, then an obvious, wet _slurp._ It made her shiver.

_“Good,”_ Tracer breathed. “Come have a taste, love.”

Widowmaker sank to the ground, her back to the window, and squeezed her thighs together. The pressure was good - at least, good enough for now - and her heart thudded in her chest, slow as ever. Every beat brought with it an echoed, heavy pulse between her legs.

“Are you wearing anything else?”

“Just a big footie shirt.”

“Take it off.”

She bit her lip as she heard Tracer follow her order with a rustle of fabric. The Tracer in her mind's eye was cute, freckled and soft and tempting as she laid back. She wondered how tousled her hair was, if there was a pretty flush on her face. Her hands started rubbing over the tops of her thighs.

“Now what?” Tracer asked, breaking through her thoughts.

“I play with your breasts. Softly. Curious. I want to see how you react.”

Tracer huffed. “Tease. You've got me stiff and leaking, and you wanna fondle my tits? My nips’re already hard, I'm just squirming under you.”

“I happen to _like_ when you squirm,” Widowmaker purred. “You're at my mercy, chérie. I'll do with you what I wish.”

_“Shit,”_ Tracer breathed. “That, that's got no business sounding so hot.”

“Beg me to touch you.” The words slipped out without thought but they felt _right,_ drawing a whine from Tracer that sent something gradually growing familiar prickling out to her fingers and urging her hand between her legs.

“Please,” Tracer huffed, _“please,_ touch me.”

“More. Tell me what you want.” 

She let out a quiet sigh as she cupped herself. Even through her suit she felt unnatural warmth radiating from her, the fabric sliding with the evidence of her impossible arousal. 

“Hang on. Are you... touching yourself?” Tracer sounded surprised, awed.

“Don't be stupid,” Widowmaker breathlessly replied as she rubbed herself through her suit. 

“Bet you are,” Tracer teased. Heat twisted below her navel at her tone. “Getting randy thinking about me begging for you to give me a proper squeeze?”

“Right now I'm thinking of choking you,” she hissed. Warmth filled her face - she wasn't _that_ transparent, was she? The resulting giggle made her stomach flip.

“Kinky. Wouldn't be opposed.” Tracer's voice lowered, returning to its previously needy quality. “I do really want you to touch me, though. I'm aching for you, love.” 

Despite herself, a quiet moan escaped. Her hips rocked forward into her hand. “I start to tease my fingers over your length again. But you have to tell me what you want,” she repeated. “You have to _beg.”_

_“Please,_ Amélie,” Tracer whimpered and oh, her _name_ coming from her like that, hot and desperate and practically a moan, was unfair, it's _unfair_ just how wet it made her. “I need _more._ Squeeze me and tug me and make me cum, _please,_ I _need_ you.”

“I do,” Widowmaker breathed, eyes shutting as she imagined it. “I take you in my fist and stroke you and tell you what a good girl you are for begging. Because you _are,_ chérie, you're _such_ a good girl, no?”

Her fingers grinded against her clit in rough circles as she spoke. Tension coiled inside of her, ratcheting tighter and tighter with Tracer's surprised gasp. She could hear the slick, quick movements of her hand through the line and had to bite her lip to stifle a weak noise of her own.

“Fuck, Amélie, _yes._ More, more of that, please, I'm so bloody _close.”_

“You sound so pretty, Lena,” she purred. Tracer's name was heavy on her tongue, too intimate, but the moan Tracer let out in response washed away her doubts. “Are you going to be a good girl and make a mess of my glove? Will I have to lick it clean?”

“I'm a good girl, I'm a good girl,” Tracer panted, the weak, desperate words stabbing red hot arousal right between Widowmaker's legs. 

Her chest tightened, her next words escaping in a growl. “I bring my mouth close and let my lips brush against you. Release for me, ma bonne fille. My good girl, my Lena.”

Sharp, ragged breaths were the only response at first, background noise to the wet slap of skin on skin, but then Tracer was wailing her name, _sobbing it,_ and Widowmaker slammed her head back against the wall with a groan as the hot tension inside of her finally _snapped._

She gasped with the intensity of it, her heavy metal boots scraping grooves into the wooden floorboards as the sudden spasms of her hips knocked over her rifle. None of it mattered - _nothing_ mattered except for the heat rippling through her in harsh waves. Distantly, she heard Tracer still panting and moaning, and her heavy breaths sent a sharp aftershock through her.

Eventually, it had to stop. She was too tender to keep going, as much as she might have wanted to. Tracer was still there at least, though her panting had quieted significantly. Widowmaker took a slow, deep breath before clearing her throat. Her thoughts were still fuzzy at the edges.

“That was... something.”

A low moan met her ears.

“Fuck _me_ I haven't cum that hard in a while. Ugh, it's _everywhere,_ hang on.” The sound of fabric rustling followed, along with a quiet, disgusted groan, and Widowmaker bit back a smile. 

“Guess tomorrow's laundry day now,” Tracer eventually muttered. “Absolutely worth, though. Oof. How're _you_ feeling, love?”

She took a moment to consider before responding.

“Wet,” she dryly replied.

Tracer let out a snort of laughter. “Mm, bet you are. That was _unbelievably_ sexy. Shame I'm not there to lick you clean.”

Her clit twinged in equal parts pain and pleasure at the idea of Tracer pulling open her suit and swiping her hot tongue through the slick mess between her thighs. “Perhaps next time,” she murmured, still stuck on the thought.

“Yeah? That'd be nice. Never did get to finish telling you all the things I like about you, after all.”

“There's _more?”_ Widowmaker scoffed. Her lips quirked up at the edges in a rare smile as Tracer giggled. Her body was loose and relaxed in a way she hadn't felt since... well, for a quite some time, at any rate. A forgotten part of her memory had her craving a cigarette.

“As if a few lines about your gob would cover it,” Tracer half-yawned. “Mm, feeling well snoozy now though. Think I'll head off, if that's alright.”

“I'm certain Talon would appreciate you no longer distracting me.”

Another giggle, decidedly more sleepy sounding than the last. Widowmaker couldn't find it in herself to loathe how cute she found it.

“G’night, Amélie.”

“Bon nuit... Lena.”

She thought she could hear Tracer's smile before the line went dead and allowed herself a moment of reflection. Earlier tonight she had been tense, irritable, ready to snap the neck of the next grunt that looked askance at her. But now? 

Widowmaker stretched her legs before getting to her feet, grimacing at the slickness beneath her suit as she bent to retrieve her rifle. The rest of her mission no longer loomed over her head threatening silent boredom and restless frustration - she felt as though she could peacefully watch the decrepit warehouse for another twelve hours easily.

Her communicator hissed and clicked as someone joined the line again.

“Hey arañita.” A different, but nonetheless familiar, voice.

“Sombra.”

“So that was a pretty hot conversation.”

Widowmaker stiffened. Any remaining warmth instantly drained from her as ice settled in her veins.

_“Excuse_ me?”

“What, you think I would just let her hack into _my_ communications software and _not_ listen in?” Her jaw clenched as Sombra scoffed. At least the question of how Tracer had even gotten connected was answered. “And anyway _someone_ had to scramble it, because I doubt you wanted that little exchange in the Talon data banks. You kinda owe me here.”

She pictured Sombra’s no doubt smug face and sneered. “What do you want?”

“When you get back, we're catching up on _One Day at a Time_ and having some _serious_ girl talk about your new girlfriend. I mean, it was _obvious_ you liked her, but phone sex on a mission? Really? A little tacky, chica. Oh, and she sucks at hacking, by the way. She almost connected to Maximilien at first.”

Widowmaker squeezed her eyes shut and let her forehead thunk against the wall with a grimace. She suddenly found herself wishing she _was_ assigned to security detail for another twelve hours.

“You are _ruining_ my afterglow.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> bunny:  
> I was just WAITING EAGERLY for a casual oh-by-the-way from sombra,  
> that they absolutely 100% lost the package  
> I need it
> 
> possum:  
> no way the package is fine  
> let her have ONE good thing in her life
> 
> bunny:  
> no  
> I won't budge on this the conclusion needs a joke about the package being gone
> 
> possum:  
> good thing you're not writing it!
> 
> bunny:  
> it was a contract this text made with me from the very beginning, when widow was bored with guarding it and needed a break,  
> it's like if you said "I see you shiver with antici,"  
> and then hold for a second,  
> and then just walk away  
> it's cruel!
> 
> possum:  
> good.
> 
> bunny:  
> inhumane!!!  
> don't edge me like this and then just leave with no aftercare!!!
> 
> possum:  
> she's already been punished with guarding the most snoozeworthy Nothing, let her rub one out in peace
> 
> bunny:  
> at the VERY LEAST!!!  
> please have an epilogue, a "meanwhile not in this fic..." in which reaper has to extremely murder some people going after it all on his own with no backup, and hates it,  
> and doesn't even get an answer to his communications,  
> possibly discovering he's been muted by sombra, and having no clue why
> 
> possum:  
> okay, maybe that
> 
> bunny:  
> let that be the after fic notes
> 
> \---  
> meanwhile, inside of the warehouse...  
> reaper: "Widowmaker, report."  
> reaper:  
> reaper: "Sombra, what the fuck is going on up there?"  
> sombra: "Hm, weird, the communications are acting up. It'll take me a while to fix it."


End file.
